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THE SOUL OF LOVE. 



The Soul of Love 

BY 

ELIZABETH TOLDRIDGE 



A Prayer for Love — dear Love, of Heaven given — 
That it be borne unbroken into Heaven ! 

A Plea for Love, in all its Dignity; 

Its Selflessness; its Immortality. 


BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

835 Broadway , New York 

BRANCH OFFICES : WASHINGTON, ATLANTA, 
BALTIMORE , CHICAGO, NORFOLK, 

FLORENCE , ALA. 



Copyright, 1910, 

By 

Broadway Publishing Co. 




«. I5>. 31. 













h , 











JN the heart of one of the lovely valleys of 
an historic little Stateship of our own Fair 
Land which is separated by a wedge of water 
into two picturesque unequal Shores, lies 
nestled the hamlet where befell an incident, 
slender, passing, yet destined to mark an epoch 
in a life. 

The recording of the hamlet’s name is a mat- 
ter of little moment, since in many ways the 
place resembles other hamlets in the same or 
in a kindred neighborhood ; and again, in little 
histories of souls, the preservation of a back- 
ground is not important ; yet here, indeed, the 
sacred setting shall be kept, albeit the name is 
to be withheld chiefly for reasons personal to 
the Chronicler, who, having taken the story 
of this strange happening to heart, has her 
fancy to retire thither when her overground 
career is ended, and a desire that only Nature 
shall know of this migration and aid in decor- 
ating her Dwelling after she is settled com- 
fortably therein. Her own, the Trusting and 


the True, will have wreathed her with gar- 
lands always; those who withheld themselves 
through those long upper days shall come too 
late with any offering, then; and even the 
laurel wreath she need not covet there : for she 
desires that this Dwelling be made not in the 
crowded center of the churchyard on the hill, 
a target for human gazes, but somewhere near 
its lonely farthest edge, close to its branchy 
outposts, where Winter (which is like Faith) 
and Spring (which is like Hope) and Summer 
(which is like Love) and Autumn (which is 
like Memory) may find her early on their way 
across the fields and whisper softly their se- 
crets as they pass. 

There would she know Nature, her Love, at 
last, not in part or through veils, but wholly; 
there would she burn in Her suns and grow 
chill in Her long rains; there would she be one 
with Her. 

Midbourne, then, it shall be written here; 
not only because it lies midway between blue 
mountains, but also for that the Memory of 
it lies — a little Wonder- place, indeed — between 
the gauzy hills of Ignorant Fancy and the tow- 
ering cliffs of Full Understanding in the Coun- 
try of a Woman’s Soul. 


contents 


The Greeting 
The Parting 
Memory Glow 
The Rock of Vision 
Love’s Highest Note . 


Page 

• 13 

• 31 

• 47 

• 57 
. 77 


9 



THE GREETING. 













































V 







/ 








THE SOUL OF LOVE 


THE GREETING. 

T HE Land lay dreaming on the breast of 
Summer, drowsily counting its heart- 
beats which were like throbs of music. 

It was not to be unlooked for that those who 
fared where the Summer was, should be glad 
and blithe on so rare a day as this ; that their 
hearts should be lifted up, like flower-urns ex- 
pectant of a meed of dew; that their souls, al- 
beit unconscious of it, should be keeping 
watch: and when Dawn, the maiden, whose 
life lay in her mother’s keeping, grew con- 
scious of a man’s unknown yet strangely ques- 
tioning eyes regarding her, it was not a matter 
at which to marvel that although she looked 
away she still remembered — not the mortal 
eyes so much as their clear immortal speeching. 
13 


14 


Cfre ©oul of iLotie 


A conspiracy, then, between the Valley the 
two were journeying over at the self-same 
hour, and the Mountains all about them, 
standing guard ; between the watchful Sky and 
the careless Land, warm and happy in the 
arms of Summer ; between Dawn’s quiet Past 
and her unquiet Future — her Dream of life and 
That which was to be. Nay, rather does it 
seem — so far-reaching the effect of that one 
moment — that out of God’s deep Heaven upon 
that day was to be wafted the self-same mes- 
sage unto two souls of a like texture : for souls 
are as diverse in weave and finish, it may be 
written, as are the sands of the sea, the leaves 
of the tree, the stars of the firmament! 

The moment brimmed and emptied, teemed 
and passed. 

These two embodied souls — chosen, called, 
God-whispered “in the ear” — facing each other 
in a crowded summer car, were of different 
parties of sojourners thereabout, soon to 
alight at Midbourne’s very gate. 

Viewed from the distant Heights, Midboume 
lies like a cluster of bushes in the valley — a 
blur of greens, with flecks of light and tiny 
blocks of shade, yet from the midst a church 
spire rises, white, slender, unmistakable, and 
either it gleams in the sun, silvery light, point- 


Cfte §>oul ot JLoDc 


15 


in g upward like the finger of a lofty Hope, or 
it shows ghostly and wavering through the 
mist, like the smoke-wraith of a once burning 
Dream. 

Seen from within, however, Midboume 
wears a less romantic guise, for a stiff little 
sentinel of a car-station guards its entrance, 
and facing this, across a bit of greensward, 
stands the time-marred schoolhouse — while 
even the passing car seems to typify a prog- 
ress that borders on encroachment; but be- 
yond the schoolhouse, upon a slight elevation, 
lies stretched God’s Acre, sleeping and dream- 
less : the poetic light returns, in truth — for here 
it dwells. 

It was the early afternoon of the day when 
the fateful car stopped at the little Midbourne 
station and the visitors, alighting, passed 
along a certain lane and down the narrow main 
street of the town. 

The Mother and Dawn, slowly following 
the crowd, had left behind them the church 
whose white steeple is visible, as well in 
shadow as in sun, from the Heights beyond, 
and were passing an ancient inn of the town 
when the maiden, looking upward, beheld the 
man whose spirit’s questioning, a while away, 
had sent her spirit groping for an answer, 


16 


C&e %>ouI of JLowe 


seated on the worn brown balcony with other 
men. He seemed to stand out sharply from 
the others, so that she saw him only; yet it 
was not because he arose quickly, courteously, 
as the women passed, looking down intently 
upon them — but, that his face, fresh-colored, 
clean-shaven, unhandsome yet gnarled with 
strength — unlike any face she had ever noted 
— suddenly, mysteriously, easily, seemed to 
have adjusted itself in startling relief against 
a background of all other faces. And yet, it 
was not of the mortal face so much as of the 
immortal power it shaped and showed that 
Dawn was thinking as, with the restraining 
touches of a tender hand, she assisted her 
mother along the uncertain way until a sud- 
den termination of the pavement surprised 
them both; then as there was not time for 
wandering on into the open country now visi- 
ble — seamed by alluring paths, hemmed by 
enchanted woodlands — the women slowly re- 
traced their steps. Perhaps even now, at the 
end of a certain lane, the car was waiting to 
convey them to the summer colony settled 
lightly upon a ridge midway between the two 
valley towns : the one, where so subtile, yet so 
weighty an event had happened as the contact 
of two like spirits, and the other, where a 


C6e @oul of JLooe 


17 


weightier, was to be — even the silent parting 
of these two marked souls. 

The strange shy Dawn looked out upon the 
world through eyes showing mysterious sea- 
lights, wearing the sad sea-colors — those 
changeful tints one marks on morning waters, 
gray and deep, where mingle “broken lights’* 
of the coming day with the pathetic shadows 
that hint of night ; eyes — which forever behold 
ships coming that never reach port, which 
brim over with great pity-tears for every crea- 
ture’s sorrow, which sometimes may see lions 
in the path ahead where only shadows huddle, 
but which always have power to discover 
stars through clouds and roses through stone- 
walls: slight wonder, then, if eyes like these 
discern a soul through flesh! 

The Mother’s face, encircled by a silver glory 
like the nimbus of a saint, bore that beneficent 
expression of eyes and lips one seeks beneath 
haloes : and, from their long living and loving 
together, the pliant Dawn, of quite other 
mould, seemed so much her mother’s self that 
it might be said there was but one heart be- 
tween them, yet there had come at last an ex- 
perience for the daughter not to be shared by 
the Mother. 

The lane that led them from Midbourne was 


18 


Cij t ^oul of Lobe 


bordered with low white fences over which 
sunflowers and altheas leaned stiffly; and it 
was here, half-hidden in a clean fence shadow, 
that Dawn espied the small severed flower she 
made her own straightway: forasmuch as it 
may be truly written that all things borrow 
grace of special seasons— even so, to a certain 
maiden, this sunflower seemed a rose ! 

A small crowd had gathered near the station, 
and, as there were no cars waiting, soon the 
quiet Dawn was seated with others on a low 
broad platform or step extending along the 
front side of the small wooden shed. The light 
folds of her gown fell across the dry field- 
grasses that grew close to the edge of the plat- 
form and leaned against it, hither and yon, like 
loops of gray-green ribbon ; and those uncanny 
eyes of hers were gazing over and beyond the 
tiny common, the stretch of nearer green, to- 
ward that far and fruitful Field behind the 
school-house, where they lingered among the 
gravestones for a space,— and then were lifted 
to enfold the new and nearer picture of her 
mother and the stranger standing side by side 
upon the green, treading down together the 
grass and clover! 

A moment ago, for the first time, Dawn had 
caught the tones of the man’s voice, half real- 


C&e @>ouI of JLote 


19 


izing that they touched her ear in cadences in- 
explicably familiar. She noticed now, as she 
heard him speak again, that while he seemed 
to be relating only a slight incident, he dis- 
played a certain warmth of feeling, as if the 
moment wrought somewhat upon him. His 
words were well-culled; his gestures, enlight- 
ening; his manner was modestly confident, as 
if self were easily forgotten, and his smile, as 
his hearers laughed in appreciation of his 
story’s climax, was rarely, strangely sweet. 

The man was easily, rightly, the center of 
interest. He stood in the sunlight, not over- 
tall, but straight-limbed, broad-chested; alert 
yet careless ; his bared head lifted as in a noble 
triumph, his countenance alight with under- 
standing, aglow as with the reflection of some 
inner fire of joy; and, for the moment, through 
the alchemy of Dawn’s stirred fancy, he 
loomed a young and great and happy god! 

The Mother — always a wonderful being in 
the daughter’s eyes, for her ever-graciousness, 
her dove-like tenderness, her special and catho- 
lic motherhood — with a smile stood listening: 
and this unexpected, felicitous coalition seemed 
meet and salutary. 

It was a scene that had for background the 
haze of distant mountains and the harmony of 


20 


Cf )t ^oul of Hotic 


a meeting sky, and was inclosed on one side 
by the ancient school-house and on the other 
by the low wooden station, overagainst the 
door of which leaned two sunburnt country 
lads. One act, indeed, it was, of a strange Life- 
drama — the hero, to a certain observer, an in- 
carnate Possibility of good! One little part 
it seemed of a large canvas full of life and 
movement — to be photographed by some in- 
stantaneous process of Fate’s, aided by Mid- 
bourne’s enchanted sunshine, upon the mind of 
Dawn and thereon fixed indelibly by the mor- 
row’s chancing — nay, were it not better writ- 
ten, the Morrow’s Purpose? 

The car at last arriving, in a few moments 
all were speeding across the valley in its safe- 
keeping. As soon as the stranger discovered 
that he occupied the cross-seat in front of the 
one whereon were seated the Mother and her 
daughter, he turned impulsively toward them 
and began speaking rapidly, with enthusiasm, 
as if he must; but, amid the clangor of the 
swiftly moving car, his first utterances were 
lost to Dawn, who, divining that she needed 
not even the safeguard of her mother’s pres- 
ence in the accidental company of a being like 
this — thereupon grew conscious of an unique 


Cfte §>oul of Lobe 


21 


and passionate curiosity to hear what this man 
had to say in a serious moment. 

She had forgotten Nature’s face! 

The pike spun out before them sure and 
straight as the vision flies, showing the long 
converging lines of a track that glittered in 
the sun. Meadows adorned like maids in Sum- 
mer’s innocent trickeries — her cobweb veils, 
her green embroideries, her bunches of purple 
and white clover, caught into dainty meshes of 
“Queen Anne’s Lace”; long light reaches of 
fruited maize waving brave banners, and 
darker patches showing where woods were 
deep; these were the pictures — lovely, vanish- 
ing — that the maiden failed to view: for her 
startled gaze was fixed upon the stranger, who 
had given her to drink, indeed, of some great 
new well of thought and feeling ! 

His appearance was not unusual, however, 
on this near view of him, and Dawn perceived 
that the youthful guise in which, uncon- 
sciously, he had masqueraded on the green at 
a safe distance, was but a cloak of glittering 
shreds and prismatic fringes, through which, at 
this moment, the mid-time of his life was 
showing, plain, solid and sedate; yet, even 
now, those rainbow edges gleamed, were lost 
and gleamed anew! 


22 


Cfie §>oul of JLotie 


The car sped still more rapidly along the 
sun-warmed way, and the man, at last, grew 
silent, absorbed apparently in the spreading 
prospect of earth and sky. The rich air rushed 
in delicious currents past their faces, but the 
maiden’s did not brighten; there lay a cloud- 
like gravity upon it, and her eyes, like dream- 
ing morning-stars, but dimly shone. 

“The mountains,” he said at last, having 
turned once more his face toward Dawn’s, but 
gazing past those sentinel eyes of hers back to 
the hills they were leaving fast, forever, “the 
mountains — look at them!” 

Partaking of his mood she quickly turned, 
and gazed with him upon a luminous picture 
—-far and unreal and lovely as a sleeper’s 
dreams ! 

“They are blue !” he announced in a tone of 
gentle triumph, genial smiles as of some hid- 
den humor flashing across his face, but his 
deep eyes held her gaze, demanding her sym- 
pathy. 

And Dawn could only echo his last word ! 

She was timid, fine, annihilable. Yet how 
clearly she perceived that this man, the first of 
his kind she had seen, was easily congenial to 
her innermost self— that self she had been 
striving for a lifetime to hide, to alter; and 


Cfre §>oul of JLotie 


23 


that it was not merely his choice of word or of 
subject, not his clearly discernible trend of 
mind that had surprised her, but her con- 
sciousness in his presence of an indefinably 
sweet effluence, a subtile essence well-nigh 
visible, a sanctifying breath that all at once she 
knew was of that peace which has been defined 
as “tranquillity of soul, simplicity of heart, 
the bond of love and the union of charity !” 

Desperately, now, she essayed to cling to 
her old happy ignorance of the morning of 
this day, which she discovered slipping from 
her like a shattered chrysalis. This new 
knowledge was only bewilderment, for never 
had her curtained dreams conceived the like ! 

“A wonderful sight !” Again she heard him 
speaking beyond the din and rattle- of the 
wheels. “Does it not recall to you the great 
Temptation — All this will I give Thee?” The 
man looked searchingly into her face again, 
but Dawn was too busy discovering a soul for 
the making of meet answer. 

“Faith and reverence,” she was thinking; 
and her face grew sweet with a new emotion, 
while a sudden rush of tears veiled her view. 

At this moment the stranger, leaning over 
the back of the seat he occupied, respectfully 
and with great gentleness took from her hand 


24 


Cfte ^oul of JLotie 


the golden-petalled flower she had found in the 
little Midbourne lane. He regarded it thought- 
fully, earnestly, for several moments; then, 
having smoothed over its petals, one by one, 
lightly yet carefully and even, as it seemed, 
with tenderness — he gravely returned it to her. 

“ I thank you,” said Dawn quaintly, and she 
smiled — at the flower! Her thought was a 
serious one, however, for she considered that 
this flower had been blessed with a blessing 
somewhat akin to that which was given in her 
churches to things that were afterward called 
holy, and she knew that now it would be ever 
an object of her cherishing. 

Somebody having inquired as to the time of 
church-going on the morrow, which would be 
the gracious Sunday made of the Lord — the 
unknown man whose soul would not be hid- 
den, turned quickly to the maiden, “You will 
pray for me before the altar to-morrow?” he 
asked her. 

She bowed her head in a mute and meek 
acquiescence. 

The request seemed rather a gentle com- 
mand, and yet a right and usual thing; it was 
conclusive, as well, for he spoke no more. 

Prim little cottages now began to appear, 
guarded by prim trees casting prim shadows. 


C6e S»ouI of JLotoe 


25 


for the journey was well-nigh spent ; and now, 
of a sudden, or so it seemed to the maiden, all 
the Beauty of the land, the Sweetness of the 
day, went fleeing backward with the sun to- 
ward a distant sacred spot— even to Mid- 
bourne, birthplace of a Memory. 

The station on the Heights, whence the lit- 
tle party had entered the car a few long, brief 
hours before, too soon approached the vision, 
and the Mother and others, with a Dawn 
sadly reluctant, arose to leave the car. The 
stranger, rising also, bowed gravely and re- 
mained standing with uncovered head, looking 
down and back upon them, until the car was 
lost to view behind a rolling hill. 

Silently, softly, slowly, she went along the 
homeward path. The isolated maple whose 
lowly task it was to shade a station roof, now 
spake strange things to her through murmur- 
ing lonely leaves ; and the little cottage at the 
end of the path — its lower outlines blurred, its 
gables black and stark against the yellowing 
sky — seemed newly set amid the rising shad- 
ows. 

Afterward, and at last alone, at her upper 
window in the tiny cottage, Dawn stood 
amazed, immovable, gazing full into the heart 
of the Afterglow. The sky appeared translu- 


26 


C&e @>oul of JLotoe 


cent, and through it the very light of Heaven 
seemed drifting, softly, purely visible. An- 
other sky than she had known was this — love- 
lier, vaster, deeper: yea, verily, for her, there 
was to be a new sky and a new earth! Her 
eyes, rich now and warm as golden waters in 
the sunset, brimmed with wonder even as 
they; and slowly, surely, as she marveled, an 
overwhelming sense of the sublimity of this 
new far splendor filled her entire being; and 
slowly, surely, as she wondered, she seemed to 
be drawn upward, to be absorbed into the 
glory, to lose her olden outer self forever in 
that sacred shining Vastness, the while she 
fell to weeping softly in an ecstasy of lonely 

joy- 

The solemn moment died. The radiance 
deepened, faded, passed. 

“O strangest day of all my life, good-bye,” 
she whispered brokenly, a faint smile veiling 
the unwonted sadness of her face. 

Then, in the dying light, withdrawing the 
little sunflower from her belt where she had 
fastened it, with a solemn deliberation she re- 
moved its every petal, not leaving one for fear 
the stranger’s hand had touched it, and this 
she did, not, indeed, through maiden senti- 
ment, but impelled by some unfathomable feel- 


Cfie §>oul of JLotic 


27 


ing bom of her apprehension of the quality of 
a soul. Reverently then, and sadly, as one lays 
away a relic of the dead, she folded the severed 
petals out of sight, having written but the 
name “Midbourne” above them on a slip of 
white, like a little gravestone. 

Crossing now to the window opening east- 
ward Dawn knelt upon the floor, and watched 
the distant lights bloom out like golden roses, 
one by one, low in that other valley where lay 
the great town that was to shelter him to- 
night ; and the little earth-stars looked up from 
their lower duskier sky, while one Heaven-star 
looked down in tolerant majesty. 

“Meet sentinel for a soul!” thought Dawn. 
“Watch well, kind star,” she called across the 
twilight; and leaving the shadow-draped win- 
dow, she sought and found the Mother, who 
had been missing her. 


t 




i 


THE PARTING. 












































* 

























t 





\ 


« 




i ■ 


* 




» 


































s 










THE PARTING. 


O N the morning of the Sunday the cottagers, 
remembering, journeyed down the moun- 
tain-side deep into that other valley whence 
arose the great town, which was said to be a 
place of many churches. 

The Mother and her daughter found their 
own and entering, they bowed and knelt be- 
fore its stainless altar — when Dawn, having 
made her act of adoration, began to whisper 
a new prayer within her heart: “One whom I 
do not know, dear Lord, but whom Thou 
knowest, has asked me to pray for him. O 
do Thou bless him, Lord!” And after the 
praying of this prayer, the maiden shed warm 
tears, not knowing why she shed them. 

It was, in truth, a festal day, for as the wor- 
shippers came out into the summer morning, 
throngs of people filled the narrow streets, 
moving in decorous groups, on the main street 
toward the east and toward the west, and on 
31 


33 Cfte ^otil of Hotie 

the cross streets toward the north and toward 
the south. 

The party from the Heights, having missed 
an early car, had willed to linger near the Inn 
for the next one, which might not pass for sev- 
eral hours. Dawn — she of the wondering heart 
— was sauntering slowly ; remembering yester- 
day; gathering her gleams of the light of life 
from the passing ripples on this sea of faces, — 
now from a girl’s bright cheek, now from a 
boy’s clear eye, and again from some sweet old 
face, wearing Time’s crinkled veil right cheer- 
ily. In the midst of these pleasant tasks of 
remembering and of lightly weaving together 
the invisible flowers of her fancy, she heard a 
surprised exclamation, and, turning quickly, 
beheld the stranger of yesterday saluting her 
mother and those of the cottagers who had 
been their companions at Midbourne. 

The greetings of the women were pleasant, 
unreserved; those of the man were simple, 
cheerful, kind. All were strangers in a strange 
place ; the Land was still love-haunted, wooed 
of Summer; the Conspirators were at their 
task again — nay, rather was the Heaven-sent 
message now to be concluded, fitly and well. 

For Dawn, as she bowed gravely, was con- 
scious of a strange inner experience; no faint 


C&e ^oul of Looe 


33 


far joy-bells ringing, no clamor of the heart, 
but the passing, as it were, of a wave of peace 
over her entire being, the sweet and sudden 
certitude of a mind at rest. 

She had lived her life singularly remote from 
men, as friends or lovers, and the early expe- 
riences of the average maid had not been hers ; 
for, while by nature delicate, fine, rarely sym- 
pathetic, she was, perforce, exclusive, and the 
average youth was not attracted by her reti- 
cence. This guardedness of hers, this shield- 
ing instinct, had saved her from the irrevocable 
mistake; yet being very human, very loving, 
and wholly unenlightened, in her very earliest 
youth, she had dared, like other maidens, to 
build for herself an ideal: and one common 
enough, perhaps — a creature embodying all the 
characteristics of her favorite heroes, a stal- 
wart and a comely — in sooth, a noble knight of 
doughty deeds and fame. As Time multiplied 
her perceptions and slightly broadened her 
ideas, she began to realize the inappropriate- 
ness of this ideal, yet she held firmly to a new 
one — that of some strong being, fine of form 
and feature, to whom unfaith would be impos- 
sible. 

An only child, close-folded beneath the warm 
wings of the Mother-love; shielded so from 


34 


Cfte ^oul of itotie 


petty material cares; going her way softly, 
unawakened, her pathway kissed by the won- 
der-light of the imagination — she had remained 
a child, simple, unworldly; and yet the later 
years seemed somehow to have obliterated 
any meek desire she may have had of meeting 
her ideal in the flesh. 

Even now, this surprising revelation unto 
her spirit of a kindred one, while it clean up- 
rooted every old ideal, called forth no new de- 
sire as to personal gain or time service, at the 
moment. It was recognition pure and simple ; 
an awed and selfless surveying of an admir- 
able, undreamed-of, and uncoveted good! Yet 
although this sudden shifting of her standpoint 
was due solely to the man himself, to his being 
what he was, to his ordained utility as to her 
inmost and uttermost need — this involuntary 
change of vision from without, in, this viewing 
of him through her spiritual vision first of all, 
proved her docile, flexible, of uncommon 
calibre. 

It seemed a right and natural act, a respect- 
ful and courteous obligation, that the stranger 
should follow the cottagers into the cool, dark 
hall of the hotel to wait with them for the 
car. There were chairs arranged along each 
side of the broad old hallway, for the con- 


Cfre @>oul of iLofee 


35 


venience, doubtless, of just such transient 
guests as those who now, without permission 
or invitation, gayly disposed themselves there- 
on. 

Dawn quickly discovered that she was 
seated opposite the unknown, well-known man 
of yesterday, who to-day seemed regarding 
her even as a father might — so indulgent was 
his mien, so earnest, so benevolent his gaze. 
In the yester-noon, his every movement was 
quick, impulsive; his every word betrayed a 
restrained excitement, a controlled enthusiasm ; 
but to-day, every motion was regular and full 
of dignity; every accent calm, weighty, — 
beautiful. 

She observed that each of the others was in- 
clined to monopolize the stranger’s attention, 
and that he displayed a whimsical patience 
with them all and a real and special interest 
in each one. 

‘‘He does not hoard himself,” she was think- 
ing. 

“And did you pray for me to-day?” at this 
moment the man asked her, turning quickly 
from the others. He had remembered. 

Dawn was wearing the color of a morning 
cloud to-day, and as she sat opposite the 
stranger, amid the shadows of the hall, it was 


36 


C&e ^ottl of Hone 


the one hour of her life, perhaps, when she 
was truly beautiful, and yet this fleeting love- 
liness of hers was but a borrowed beauty. It 
was not only that her gown’s faint rose-tint 
lent of its glow to her pale face, softly enrich- 
ing it, or that the time-darkened walls behind 
her threw into relief her graceful body; she 
had caught the light of a soul within her 
breast, and her eyes — like twin seas beneath 
the sun — were giving forth a beautiful reflec- 
tion. Yea, as she looked upon him, she was 
unconsciously rendering unto him a reflection 
of himself blent with the best that was her 
own! 

The man arose in a few moments to facilitate 
the exit of several people who had descended 
the stairs into the hall, and, after they had 
passed, he remained standing while the light 
from the open door fell full upon him. His 
roughly modeled face, stalwart chest and 
sturdy limbs were touched with strong high 
lights and marked with well-blocked shadows. 
His rugged mien, and again that strange out- 
pouring of peace or love — constant, healing, 
well-nigh visible — suggested unto Dawn some 
mountain peak, some dauntless cliff with the 
sun behind it: rough, wild, picturesque, and 
bearing a beauty not of outline but inborn — 


C&e §>aul of JLoUe 


37 


'even its steadfastness. Softly she dreamed and 
wondered, “as the shadow of a rock” — and 
slowly she came to understand: and she pon- 
dered long the peace of one in covert from the 
tempest, enhidden from the wind; in shelter 
from the burning sun of day, the terrors of the 
night. 

Before her stood — a man ! 

The supposed lack of foundation for a cer- 
tain poetized legend of the place having been 
referred to by somebody, the stranger moving 
nearer and looking down on Dawn, now said 
to her: 

“It is only that Genius sees more of the 
invisible Truth than is apparent to the most 
of us — do you not think so?” 

“Ah, yes,” she cried, alive to her new mo- 
ment, “it follows the heart — on its hidden 
journeys ! I may not love this legend ; but no 
one shall rob me — of my Evangeline,” she 
added, courageous now that she knew the 
stranger loved her poets. 

“Nor me — of mine,” he said in tones so 
deep, so tender and so sweet, they seemed to 
vibrate over his very heart, — and to woo a 
wild sweet echo out of hers ! Strongly stirred 
and strangely comforted, Dawn knew she had 


38 


Cbe g>oul of Lotte 


caught, at last, the depth of the meaning of 
that old legend of the Angel “whose heart- 
strings are a lute”: she had tasted the sweet- 
ness of a heart of love and had heard the mu- 
sic of its utterance ! 

“Summer and winter are so real,” a moment 
later the man was saying to her, some one 
having been heard to complain of the heat of 
the morning, “the first gives, perhaps, too 
much and the last, too little ” 

“But — autumn and spring — they are the 
dream-seasons,” whispered Dawn, like a little 
automaton. And the man smiled at her readi- 
ness. 

“The autumn — a dream of what has been,” 
he mused, “the spring, of what’s to be? And 
yet, in life — they tell us — fulfillment is better 
than dreaming — having, than remembering 

a 

“I — do not know of that,” she said, in her 
very lowest tone, “there is nothing like — the 
wonder of promise — to me !” 

There was flashed a strange look upon her 
from those inscrutable eyes of his, yet the man 
now remained silent, while bits of the idle talk 
about once more came drifting toward them. 

“She nearly died — a little while ago — my 


C6e g>oul of lobe _39 

mother,” presently Dawn faltered, looking up 
at him. 

He spoke no word at this, but a shadow, as 
it were, of deep concern, passed over his coun- 
tenance and he fixed his gaze on the Mother — 
or so it seemed to the daughter — with a new 
and well-nigh tender interest. 

Instantly, and for the first time in her life, 
she knew that the crying need of her nature 
was sympathy. At the same instant, it was 
made known to her that the man before her 
had it in his nature to fill this need of hers in 
fullest measure, and yet the lightning flashes 
of these two knowledges revealed that so it 
would never be vouchsafed to her. 

She experienced no disappointment, no re- 
gret. Her senses were purely still. It was an 
awakened griefless soul that was deciphering 
its own history by the light of the reflection of 
that soul of his. 

‘‘He is what I wish to be,” she thought. “He 
is like my pine trees — his sweetness exalts 
more than his strength — nay, his sweetness is 
his strength ” 

And now her thought of him, which ran 
clear and true as any river, began to flow 
faster, deeper, stronger. Behold a man the 
youth-time of whose life was long ago, who 


40 


CSe ^oul of Hone 

might have become weary, discouraged, disen- 
chanted, who might have grown hard, cold, 
bitter, — but who, she divined, in the very 
crushing against his heart, in a manly accept- 
ance, of many a broken faith and hope and 
love, had drawn therefrom-— as easily as one 
bruises out perfume from the petals of broken 
roses — that sweetness which his very being 
exhaled. 

Here was one mysteriously near and human, 
yet clad in that reserve which is of the invio- 
late spirit. The wide sunny meads of his na- 
ture were for all to tread, she saw, yet, some- 
how, of a surety she knew — that beyond them 
lay the virgin forest of his heart, its beauty 
unexplored, its silence unbroken, its sacred 
ways untrodden of the soft foot of Love ! 

The man’s very silence was a clear lan- 
guage, pregnant with unmistakable meanings 
— the answers to a lifetime’s unworded ques- 
tionings. His silence and his speech alike 
seemed measures of a wonderful new song, the 
sweet burden of which she had not taken 
thought rang in the world: The coming of a 
new soul to the earth like a new star to the 
sky, the dauntless shining of it and the strange 
windings of its immortal course ; the shedding 
of its light and warmth on all it reaches here, 


C&e §>otiI of ftotoe 


41 


and its sometime passing out beyond these 
visible shores on other beautiful, if unknow- 
able, missions! 

The car came speeding along the narrow 
unpicturesque street, and, as it stopped before 
the hotel for its meed of passengers, the 
stranger, springing forward with one of yes- 
terday’s lithe movements, assisted the delicate 
sweet mother across the curb and into a seat 
in the summer car. Dawn, entering, had found 
a vacant place ; but, before taking it and while 
the car was filling slowly, she turned to bow 
her thanks and her good-bye to the man who 
was standing with bared head in the full day- 
light of the dusty street — and as she looked 
upon his face, raised fully to hers, like a flash 
of holy lightning, there leaped from his eyes 
and shone from every lineament, his recogni- 
tion; and she knew that he saw her, even as 
she saw him, without veils. The knowledge 
made her faint with a chill new joy, but even 
as that glad “all hail” flashed forth, a sheer 
farewell trembled across his countenance in 
such wise that her senses reeled and the very 
car seemed sinking beneath her feet. Yet she 
stood firm; and instantly, miraculously, as she 
gazed upon him — once more did she behold 
all the solemn beauty of this man’s character: 


42 


C{)e ©oul of JLoUe 


The sweetness and the cheer; the simple faith 
and the inviolate truth; the courage; the pa- 
tience ; the mighty strength that had been won 
of self-effacement! 

Dawn’s body bent low before him the while 
her spirit did him reverence. The next mo- 
ment, she was seated white-faced and calm; 
the car had begun its rapid progress across 
the town, and the shadow of its roof served as 
a kindly screen for the dazed wonder of her 
face and the sad amazement of her eyes: as 
Time began straightway to weave with long 
strong threads the distances between them ! 

The cottage on the Heights soon shrined 
its accustomed guests. There were daughterly 
duties performed and motherly aids accepted 
as the hour for dining approached; and after- 
ward a crowd of Sunday guests settled on the 
porch like migratory birds upon a branch. One 
or two of these poured long stories into 
Dawn’s ear; matters trivial yet loomed, until 
the sunset; indeed, it was only with the dusk 
that the visitors departed and there fell to her 
portion a quiet moment. Withdrawing, then, 
to a distant corner of the porch, she stood there 
watching, wondering, as the Cloak of Dark- 
ness was being drawn by invisible hands, 


€fre §>oul of Lotie 


43 


softly, slowly, mysteriously, about the Land; 
and when, of a sudden, from out those upper 
silent spaces, some unseen wanderer of the 
night let fall its lonely plaint — unto it her 
heart returned faint echoes! 

Verily, it was a new night for the maiden. 
There had never been one like it in her life. 
Dream-nights there had been a-plenty — aye, 
and many a night-poem writ in magic dew, 
telling of the fragrant speech of hidden flow- 
ers, of the harmonious numbers of invisible 
singers, of the low whispers of her only lover, 
the South Wind! But this was a night with- 
out a Dream — and only the soul of Dawn felt 
the keen reality of it, knew all the Wonder of 
its sadness, the Strangeness of its joy! For it 
was like to all things Lonely that were still 
not desolate! 







































n 











































MEMORY-GLOW 
































MEMORY-GLOW. 


HE gathering up for a reweaving of the 



JL broken threads of life after her return to 
the beautiful city where she dwelt, the re- 
treading of familiar paths that now opened into 
fair new byways, and the renewal of old 
friendships, each holding now some fine new 
element — were added and sculpturing expe- 
riences for Dawn, who, true as her immature 
inner vision had been, at this time beheld 
things with so painful a clearness, her life’s at- 
mosphere seemed to have acquired a new and 
wonder-working property; yet she had never 
made allusion to her late discoveries or 
hinted of that subtile lovely light suffusing her 
life’s sky — even the wonderful, lingering after- 
glow of Memory. 

For she who had ever given her lightest 
thought to her mother’s keeping, in a sheer 
and lovely necessity, had not found it possible 
to speak to her of this strange new influence, 
so elusive yet so real, so living, it was daily, 


47 


48 


Cfoe Ps>Qul of JLofoe 


hourly imparting to her sweet facts, fresh 
truths, new knowledges. The old things had 
not lost their olden meanings — they had ac- 
tually acquired new ones; but other matters 
had grown weightier in the light of this new 
directing power of hers; the olden hopes, in- 
deed, had been sweetened and preserved, but 
other expectations, new-born, beautiful, un- 
dreamed of, — had suddenly revealed them- 
selves. Other affairs were waiting to be con- 
sidered — aye, and speedily — things convincing, 
urgent, great. 

In truth, for Dawn, the old superficial loves, 
admirations, enthusiasms, were slowly slipping 
backward like a receding sea, leaving the beau- 
tiful bare rocks of the true realities standing 
stark, immutable, in the searching light ! 

Hitherto, her ideality had swayed her with- 
out her knowledge. Bom with her, fostered 
by her religious training — for what is ideality, 
what idealism, but the outlook of the spirit? — 
throughout her childhood and youth it had 
lain folded and still, its only outcome being an 
exaggerated respect for others and a constant 
elimination of herself ; now, wide awake and 
passionately conscious, it seemed forcing great 
wings upon her that she might seek empyreal 
ways. The revelation had been, the awaken- 


C6e %oul of Lobe 


49 


ing had come to pass. Each day she saw more 
clearly the beauty of the standards, the fine- 
ness of the struggle upward, the glory of the 
almost victory! There was to be now a self- 
spurred and continual passage on and up, a 
self-directed broadening and sweetening of the 
character, a real growth of the soul ; and Dawn 
was beginning to feel this growth of hers with 
an awed yet joyous consciousness. 

She had served timidly, now and again, at 
the shrines of the Muses, but her love of good 
work and a sorry lack of self-trust had served 
as severe disheartenments. Indeed, it v/as be- 
cause of this unfortunate clog of vision or 
understanding concerning herself that she had 
failed to perceive the need of an ardent perse- 
verance; but that late and pitiless searchlight 
raying from another soul had revealed the 
enormity of this negligence of hers, and, all 
at once, the necessity of effort was borne in 
mightily upon her soul — unto the birth of a 
noble purpose, unto the beginning of joy ! 

“Thyra will understand,” she thought. “Ah, 
I have her keynote at last ! I know now why 
I have loved her, my skylark!” 

Now, within that memorial year, there had 
fallen a wonderful Indian Summer : Soft, thick 


50 


Cfte Soul of fLotoe 


hazes hung heavy and low over the earth, and 
the air was warm and rich with an indefinable 
sweetness, as of the breath of a Summer that 
was only sleeping. 

Dawn walked in sympathy through this new 
bliss of the earth, for was it not recalling its 
Summer and was she not remembering, also? 
This mellow glory hiding denuded boughs, 
this impalpable bloom over all things, was like 
Memory : Behold, it was the Afterglow of the 
year! 

She stood alone, amid the stillness of one late 
afternoon, in a tree-haunted space near her 
home, which was in a quiet neighborhood. 
She had wanted Nature ; Nature had called to 
her; and she was here — as near to its great 
heart as one might be in a peopled place ; and, 
having found a certain splendid elm, she had 
paused to muse a-while beneath its rain of 
leaves. Before her seemed to hang a wide 
rich tapestry— a rare and lovely blending of 
near and far distances, inwrought with somber 
blurs of color, even the dimming glories of 
the loosening leaves. Thinning masses of the 
rose and amber of some maples near lay in 
large loose flakes against the solid browns of 
the young oaks; and, yonder, the crisping 
cream of beechen boughs stood out softly 


Cf )e @>oul of Itotie 


51 


against a changeless background of pine and 
cedar; while, farther off, tall ghosts of trees 
and little phantom bushes halted: for between 
and through and over all — and near and far — 
those soft gold hazes swung, like glowing 
smoke-clouds rolling up from some giant con- 
flagration in the west. 

Behold, it is the evening of the day, and its 
morning glories linger! Behold, it is the sun- 
set of the year, and the fires of its youth still 
smoulder! Their rosy breath hangs low be- 
tween the maples, it dims the farthest beech; 
it mounts the poplar tree, as if to veil the 
sky ; and it invades the very heart of man ! 

The heavy sweetness of the air steeped 
Dawn’s senses; the unearthly beauty of the 
scene hallowed her eyes and penetrated her 
mind — the while a certain remembrance grew 
so sweetly insistent that presently she cried 
out in a quick anguish for that she could read 
no more in the Book of the stranger’s spirit, 
which was closed to her forever! 

The memory of that which she had read, 
returning softly, brought with it a first pang 
of conscious loss ; and this was followed by an 
ardent wish to re-live those golden moments 
that she might learn yet more and more. Her 
one brief reading had wrought so much of 


52 


C&e @>oul of Hofj e 


good — even now, it was all her inspiration — 
what might not further knowledge bring? She 
thought she was mindful of her art, of her 
noble purpose, of her desire to portray as best 
she could in her pen pictures what she saw 
and what insight revealed of the little lives of 
men; and she was sure that another reading 
of that living Volume would open all hearts 
unto her! 

The sky shone greenish blue beyond the 
saffron leafage; the heavy air enwrapped her 
like a cloak-of-dreams ; and now, yon sundyed 
smoke seemed incense ascending before a 
Mystery. She raised her face, sad, earnest, 
golden-pale, and as her eyes through thin 
tear-mists looked upwards — of a sudden, her 
heart was pierced with Understanding, until 
she felt the wound. 

Scarcely with volition had she been recall- 
ing the stranger’s plain, yet uncommon, fea- 
tures; those comprehending eyes which gave 
forth his spirit’s word unerringly; those lips 
where dwelt benignity, whence issued music. 
She remembered those hands that seemed 
formed for saving and for blessing; those feet 
that seemed ready to run on any service for 
any creature; that breadth of shoulder which 
meant protection; that curve of a noble chest 


Clje §>oul of JLofce 


53 


outbreaking peace : and, for the first time, she 
felt on overwhelming need of his real pres- 
ence, a pure and ardent longing to be near him 
again — not only that she might re-read his 
soul’s absorbing page, but that she might be- 
hold the body ennobled by that soul ; not only 
that she might feel again the unearthly sweet- 
ness of his spirit’s message, but that she might 
hear once more the human sweetness of his 
heart-warmed voice. 

Transported by this momentary need, she 
was recalling how he had passed across her 
life’s young path — now with the step of Spring 
and, again, with the voice of Summer — and 
that ever since hope’s Violets had been pur- 
pling all her path, as if May were to be for- 
ever hers; when, suddenly as she stood, foot- 
deep in the dying leaves, in Dawn’s sweet 
way strange Roses dared to blow — and surely 
her June was nigh ! 

Wrapped in a mantle of some soft pale 
fabric that matched the fading leaves and fell 
in long, loose folds to her feet, she stood im- 
movable in the quiet spot, and her face seemed 
that of some carven ivory image — in its mel- 
low paleness, its clear-cut outline, its absolute 
immobility; but her hands moved softly to- 
gether toward her breast, as if to shield — for 


54 


Cl )c €$oul of iLoije 


within it now there lay what seemed a living 
load of heavenly Sweetness; and this, she 
thought, was the mighty weight of the Per- 
ception of love, the heavy burden of the Com- 
prehension of love — which presently she was 
to bear homeward through the sunset of the 
day and of the year. 

Slowly she passed along the deserted streets 
with bended head and holy introspective eyes, 
for there had come to her a newer interpreta- 
tion of that new joy she had found, a clearer 
apprehension of life’s Meaning — through this 
strange Vision of hers : even a Vision of Love 
stripped of all the selfish, false, and ignorant 
conceptions of it that hide it from so many in 
the world; for thus she beheld it at last, all 
pure, all holy, and all beautiful — a Wonder to 
lower the eyelids, a Light to mark new paths 
for us, a Fire to warm the world! 


THE ROCK OF VISION 



THE HOCK OF VISION. 


I N truth, through her instant and rare appre- 
ciation of another soul, Dawn had come 
to an understanding of herself ; while hearken- 
ing to the soundless music of another’s being, 
she had caught the melodious secret of her 
own; and she knew it was attuned to Love, 
the Heaven-born melody — which has awak- 
ened humanity through all the ages unto life 
and soothed it into sleep! 

Each morning-chime of her new winter kept 
well in tune with this old-new music; each 
night the frosty stars surely sang it over to- 
gether; for never had time rung so sweet and 
true for her, never had the consciousness of 
being sounded so pure a note. 

Each morning’s sky arched radiant, triumph- 
ant; each evening’s dusk but hid a waiting 
morrow; perhaps, a morrow of blurred sky, 
dimmed outlines, lost distances — but yester- 
day’s bare branches showed strange flowers, 
57 


58 


Cfte g»ouI of Lotoe 


blown in a single night; and Dawn, accept- 
ing the ghostly blossoms as prophecies of 
blooms that were to be, went on her illumined 
way hearing always that inner tireless Song. 

The season brought with it the old friends, 
one or two new ones, many tasks, a few real 
pleasures ; and the full hours, as they crowded 
thick and fast, seemed conspiring to blur the 
past, to kill the memory, to silence the music — 
yet still throughout these overladen days was 
Dawn ever mindful of the strange white Light 
emanating from that sun-like Soul that had 
both hidden and revealed so many things. 
Oftentimes, her sweet new Comprehension 
appeared so real, so living, she leaned above 
it, she cradled it as a mother clasps her child; 
or, again, when a little weary and discouraged, 
she turned to it for succor; she trusted to it, 
she leaned upon it, as a child might lean 
against a strong and tender father. 

The first awakening of the earth after her 
particular and great experience was to her 
bewitched perceptions a brand-new wonder. 
Never had there flowed currents of bloom 
like these along her way ; never had there run 
such rivulets of living green hither and thither 
over the brown clods; never before had the 
proud new robins crowded in like joyful col- 


Cfie Soul of JLoUc 


59 


onies; never had the blackbirds strutted on 
such weighty errands across the grass ! There 
seemed some fresh rare reason for the extraor- 
dinary quality of things ; for the almost sacred 
delicacy of scent and sound; for the prismatic 
beauty of massed blossoms, the transporting 
ways of little wilful winds; — and the freshly 
awakened observer apprehended as never be- 
fore the Infinitude of harmony, of beauty. 

At last June came enriching every garden, 
and Dawn’s Cup of life seemed brimming over 
with pure thankfulness. 

“These roses of our latest days are the 
sweetest of them all,” one morning she cried 
to the lifelong comrade seated near her in 
their cheerful room, and Dawn, as she stood 
beside the bloom-heaped table, smiled down 
upon the Mother with eyes that might have 
served as vouchers for the immortal youth of 
souls, and which looked into eyes of a like 
enduring quality! 

And at this moment Thyra appeared in the 
doorway; when Dawn, quickly aware of her 
friend’s presence, looking steadily upon her, si- 
lently asked her, “O star-far soul, so lonely- 
bright — will he who loves you ever reach you, 
I wonder?” Then she gave her glad greeting, 
while the Mother looked upward with that 


60 


C be @>ouI of Lotie 


pure smile of hers, which beamed effulgent 
like a moonray. The three talked for a while ; 
then, remembering certain little cares she had 
ever made her own, the Mother left the two 
she loved together, to begin her motherly day 
— thereafter fluttering in and out of the room, 
like a little rose on the wing or a dainty white 
butterfly brimful of news it was constrained 
momently to deliver. 

A simple place it was that Thyra entered, 
but she had long revered it as a sacred home- 
temple where burned undying hearth-fires of 
love and cheer. In the middle of the room 
was the table laden with Books (as well as 
roses) — the old, old guides and counsellors, 
uplifting, consecrate, and a few new friends 
and joy-givers, corroberant, sustaining; while, 
secure upon the mantel-shelf, sat a lovely 
cherub (in plaster) singing the very heart out 
of the little book he was holding; but only 
Dawn heard the music and knew the meaning 
of his song: 

“And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 

That Israfelli’s fire 
Is owing to that lyre 


%otil of Lotte 


61 


By which he sits and sings — 

The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings.” 

And this the sheltered nook where the 
Mother gave forth her heart’s fragrance in 
words and deeds of grace, and where the 
strangely ideal Dawn had for long been spin- 
ning her tenuous threads of fancy, weaving 
them into little webs of rhyme and of dream- 
ful tale ; and where, of late — in the writing of 
a tiny book — she had begun to forge, in ear- 
nest, those love-links which were to bind her 
to the outer world. Slowly and laboriously 
she had wrought — yet with a solemn bliss of 
heart; for, although the joy hid in the writ- 
ten word may be discoverable by and of sol- 
ace to many, it is always deepest felt by him 
who pens it as his own. Each thought of hers 
now seemed a fact — sure, solid, separate — 
freshly prepared for handling by some invis- 
ible helper; and she was aware of the infusion 
of a strange new strength, a growing power to 
do the thing she willed: to hew from these 
real blocks of thought her shapely meaning ; to 
make right images of what she knew of beauty 
and of truth. 


62 


Cfie §5oul of HoU 


Thyra, close at the other’s side, was tall, 
slender, straight as a pine, and the folds of 
her black gown fell about her with a grace 
that was subtly personal. Her white skin, 
touched with pink at the cheek, offered strong 
contrast to the loose, dark locks above her 
straight forehead; while her eyes held within 
them shadows brown and deep as the dusk of 
woods where relics of all the summers gone 
still are — and in Thyra’s heart strange 
thoughts of all the Past lay hidden. 

It was a countenance whereon were trace- 
able ‘‘sweet records” — and Dawn, looking up- 
ward, beheld there, also, the “promises as 
sweet.” My friend can do no wrong — was her 
umTrtered dictum; for to a being like unto 
her, love and trust are one, and the taking of 
the perfectness of the beloved for granted is 
ever the essentiality of love. So, also, with 
her friend; who would have displayed, at a 
test moment, not more confidence in the ver- 
dict of her own senses than in the truth of 
Dawn. 

“Flowers are too sweet to keep,” smiled 
Dawn, deftly securing a long-stemmed rose 
against the other’s bodice. “You have some- 
thing to tell me,” said Thyra. “My dear,” 
whispered her friend, “not a single material 


Cf)e %ouI of Hotoe 63 

advantage, and oh, such wonderful enrich- 
ment !” 

“I know — I have been watching. You are 
hourly unfolding like — the rose!” And Thyra 
smiled. “Tell me your secret, dear.” 

“Have you ever felt — that you were on the 
very Verge of a glory? Something has made 
me see — has made me understand!” 

There was to be no more hesitation after 
the sudden impetuous leap of her thought into 
speech, even as there could be no more back- 
wardness of her soul after its emersion from 
a lifetime’s ignorance. 

“It was wonderful — the clear view of him,” 
she said, after she had told her simple story. 
“Strange,” she murmured a moment later, 
looking downward at the roses, “but it is just 
that selfless sensitiveness, that divine delicacy 
of soul which is sympathy — that makes the 
strength, the solid greatness of the Man; for 
what is sympathy but shielding, what is love 
but sheltering?” 

Thyra smiled her understanding smile, and 
pressed the speaker’s hand. 

“You were born wise, Thyra. I had to be 
enlightened.” 

“You were always — Dawn!” 

“The noble have saved me.” 


64 


Cfte §>ouI of JLotie 


“You have made a new acquaintance — your 
real self. Somebody has introduced you — 
would it had been I! You will come to know 
her better and better, and this will facilitate 
the life-work; already, you speak with a new 
strength and fervor !” 

“Who finds himself, loses himself forever,” 
whispered Dawn. “The Thought of love — 
how beautiful it is, my Thyra! It grows and 
grows — it is like a tree!” 

“It is as if one were standing on a rock in 
the middle of a great lake — and imperceptibly 
the shores recede until the lake becomes an 
ocean bounded by the sky!” And Thyra’s 
voice was to the ear as soft as velvet is to 
touch and vision. 

“But about him — what is it, Thyra?” 

“He seemed an embodiment of your ideal. 
You are but worshiping your olden thought, 
your own high dream.” 

“And yet”- — the voice of Dawn was softly 
clear; her eyes were dark and deep as night- 
hid waters— their gaze impelled belief — “he 
was not my ideal at all, but one I had never 
dreamed of — that I did not know could be ! A 
dream for me, although not mine, instinct with 
life; an ideal for me, yet not my own, breath- 
ing great breaths! In my perception of this 


C6e §>oul of Jtotie 


65 


wonderful fact I found my clear message, 
my sharp enlightenment, and it was this : 
That we are not capable of measuring our 
heart’s needs for ourselves ; that we may even 
fail to know what our ideal is — or, rather, 
what it should be to meet our need, to fit our 
souls; and so, should wait without a dream 
until God’s time to gauge this need, trusting to 
His judgment altogether in the filling of the 
measure. And I believe — that the moment of 
the bestowal we shall know!” 

Thrilled to the finger-tips with feeling at 
the bare remembrance of this flash of truth 
struck from the strange contact of that other 
soul with hers, Dawn was trembling violently ; 
but her eyes now glowed like soft still flames, 
while her cheeks were colorless as ashes. 

Thyra drew her down upon the couch, and 
there fell a silence between them ; but in a lit- 
tle while, “Tell me more, dear,” Thyra said, 
the earnestness of her nature revealing itself 
in her calm and steady tones — for she shared 
her friend’s every enthusiasm, “he will surely 
come again?” 

“Could he do more — for me — than he has 
done — I wonder?” 

Thyra waited. 

“He was tender of all women, he was patient 


66 


Cf )t ^oul of HotiO 


of all men. This man could not wound; he 
was not suspicious — he dropped self out of 
sight in the Well of other people’s weal! Ah, 
to be genial, to be tolerant, to suffer every- 
body — this, indeed, is love ! And he, that great, 
pliant-hearted, lissome-souled creature — who 
could be formal only to the Prince of Dark- 
ness — has taught it to me !” 

“You will see him, here, again! Surely he 
was a free man, dear?” 

“O yes,” said Dawn quickly, “but no,” she 
added dreamily, “I think he was married — to 
Joy ! And yet I clearly read in that last glance 
of his that his days, his ways were sacrificial.” 

“And he was courtly, good to look upon?” 
asked Thyra. 

“But does it matter, dear? And it is not 
as a Knight I think of him, although I felt his 
chivalry; but, only — as a man! Verily, a 
shield; a shelter; a tent in the wilderness!” 
And the eyes of Dawn held sweet far looks 
that seemed to enfold new visions, as of lonely 
places grown populous, silent places made vo- 
cal, and deserts cooled with shade. 

“Ah, he had the outlook, the inlook — he 
knew! He knew — that to be only noble is — « 
to live! He knew— that the Real life is a 
giving up of many things, a doing without of 


Cfie %>oul of JLotoc 


67 


many things, yet a sure and joyous, an on- 
ward, skyward flight! Yet about my thought 
of him — I scarcely understand. I only know 
— that guessing so well what love might be,” 
she went on softly, “makes me rich enough 
to do without it! I only know — ’tis as if he 
were a king, and I his unknown vassal who 
would make the whole world love him, if she 
could !” 

The Mother, who, of late, had several times 
appeared in the doorway only perforce to dis- 
appear, now stood once more within it, and 
wearing her tenderest smile she was gayly 
quoting, “And love is still an emptier sound — ” 

“Heresiarch !” cried Dawn, springing up- 
ward from the couch. 

“Of course, I have heard every word! And 
is this my wise little daughter? I am startled, 
perhaps grieved!” The Mother spoke in an 
arch and smiling manner, but the exquisite 
eyes she raised to Thyra’s the next moment 
held anxious looks within them. 

“Little Mother,” said Dawn, taking her 
hand, “it was the victor I saw in him! No 
dull born-goodness, but the flowering out of a 
soul against odds! Yet the soul had to be of 
fine grain in the beginning and fragrant- 
sweet!” 


68 


Clje @oul of JLotee 


“My daughter ” 

“My mother,” whispered Dawn, “it is the 
only real thing that ever happened to me! 
You know our little hidden days? This is the 
experience of a life; the permanent circum- 
stance; the conclusive event! It is my pun- 
ishment and its assuagement — I am shriven 
and comforted!” 

Dawn, to-day, had overcome the habit of a 
lifetime. Hitherto, her opinions had been pre- 
sented timidly and with little grace of manner 
or diction, for one of the evidences of her 
strangely delicate nature had been the placing 
of an undue value upon the opinion of others, 
the while she found it well-nigh impossible to 
submit her own. 

She had early discovered the poignancy of 
unkind words ; they were like quick and deadly 
shot; they were like living things that stung; 
she was even persuaded that one could die of 
them ; so from the first naturally, if afterward 
by grace, she had refrained altogether from 
wounding with words, and this mindfulness of 
others had grown with her growth. Thus it 
was that a noble self-repression, a not inglori- 
ous cowardice, had lent a certain hesitancy to 
her speech, or, oftener, hushed her lips to si- 
lences; and Dawn had been considered dull 


Cfte @>ouI of iloue 


69 


by those whose impotent gaze pierced not be- 
yond her spirit’s strange disguise. 

“A new Dawn, after all,” thought Thyra. 

“Is this, indeed, my child?” the Mother asked 
herself, her heart contracting with a swift un- 
looked-for pang. 

It was, in truth, the initial moment of the 
timid Dawn’s assumption of authority. And 
now her message rang sweet and clear as a 
call to souls; and now it chanted a warning 
and a prophecy, as musically tender as a 
psalm! Unthinking ones of the earth, it 
seemed to sing, O come and see how holy a 
thing is Love; Love that hath power to live 
unnourished, unsustained, even to expand vi- 
tally in its own shadow ! Love that once born, 
or even once conceived of, must go on and on 
existing here, of its own strength and beauty! 
O come and see how wonderful is Love! O 
come and hear the music beatific ! O come and 
know the divine bliss of self-spending — for 
only this is Love! 

Of a truth, at the very first instant of the 
maiden’s vision, her note of love had been 
high — yet, then, it was Love the Comfort she 
had dreamed of, and to be shared ; but her soul 
had mounted since: and now, in this late ex- 
position of hers, there thrilled a higher note — 


70 


€f)e of Lotte 


it was even Love the Sacrifice ! She had read, 
indeed, life’s Meaning clear in that new spirit- 
language she had so lately acquired : for those 
strange sweet Roses in her path were breath- 
ing the breath of love for all the world beyond, 
and the Violets, the breath of hope for every 
creature ; never again for her alone ! And 
Thyra understood. “She is content to be with- 
out (if she must) that part of love which would 
be as a gift for her, if only she has that part 
which she may yield as a gift to others !” 

“I have touched, at least, the hem of the 
robe of Joy,” said Dawn, in low and reverent 
tones. “An unknown door seemed to open 
into the very Heart of things; I have found — 
treasures! It seems to be the very beginning 
—of all things!” 

“My daughter,” smiled the little motherly 
one, “surely your opportunity for observing 
this stranger was a very brief one ” 

“Yet what he was in those few moments 
seems to me a surety of what he would be al- 
ways,” said Dawn softly. “If one were trav- 
elling along a lonely country road, and the 
night were coming on — and suddenly an angle 
of light gleamed out from the partly opened 
door of some hidden cottage — would it not 
transfigure the dusk? Would it not be satis- 


Cfje ^oul of JLotoe 


71 


fying for a time? And would it not give as- 
surance of all light and warmth within that 
wayside cabin? And the rose we lose, though 
we find it never again — will it not go on giving 
out its fragrance until it dies? And the bird 
that delighted us — will it not go on singing 
over and over — the song of which we heard 
only a sweet note or two in passing?” 

“God strikes the Rock of Understanding — 
the crystal waters flow !” and these were Thy- 
ra’s inspired accents. 

She arose. “Must you go, dear?” said the 
Mother regretfully; and Thyra bent to kiss 
her. 

“Your thoughts — I love them, Dawn,” she 
said. “One’s thoughts — they are so real, and 
yet how dreamlike in their loveliness! They 
break upon the soul like the waves of an en- 
chanted ocean; the music that they make no 
man-shaped instrument may voice; the colors 
that they wear can not be found in any rain- 
bow; the foam into which they break is so 
ethereal, so elusive, it becomes invisible al- 
most before one may behold it.” 

“And words,” cried the joyful Dawn, “mu- 
sical, magical words — flowing on and on like 
little rivers, golden in the sun and silver in 
the shade ; winding ’round and ’round a 


72 


Cfte %ottI of Hobc 

thought like shreds of rainbow mist, so deli- 
cate they are ; or striking out a thought — hard- 
ly, deftly, as a smith’s hammer beats out the 
shape he wills— so powerful they can be!” 

“Good-bye, ‘Sweet Charity,’ ” and Thyra 
looked upon the Mother. “You poets claim 
too much for your friends,” was the smiling 
answer, “for I cannot call it flattery — it is just 
your magic-glasses !” 

Dawn followed Thyra to the door. “You 
are going without telling me a word, and yet 
I know your secret! Justin has spoken — and 
you — have answered him!” 

But Thyra did not speak. 

“I am glad he is tall and strong ; and brave 
like a Viking! I like his peaked, red beard, 
his pale, pure face, his warm and smiling 
eyes! You look well together; but, best of 
all, I know you belong together ; for he tramps 
the uplands, too. Ah, see in what a different 
way our natures express themselves! With 
you, where all was murmurous before, full of 
poetic melody — love is a Silence, as you once 
wrote; while with another — the mere percep- 
tion of the Meaning of love bestows a voice! 
Dear, you were too meek to think of love; 
you left the dream to God; and behold, it is 
now your own!” 


Cfje @>oul of Hotte 


73 


Thyra stooped to lay her face full tenderly 
against her friend’s; then, with lowered eye- 
lids and muted lips, she turned away, and 
through the open door passed out into the 
noontide. 


1 


/ 









LOVE’S HIGHEST NOTE. 


/ 




w 



LOVE’S HIGHEST NOTE. 


HE days went by, and the months crowd- 



X ed,'one upon the other, slowly, swiftly — 
until Time’s scroll unwound another year, and 
still another. Dawn’s little book, “The Sower 
of the Seed,” had gone forth into the world, 
warmed of her heart’s blood, sweet with her 
spirit’s fragrance, strong with the might of an 
inspiration crystallized at last. In truth, she 
had so nourished and cherished the noble pur- 
pose that it had assumed a concrete beauty — 
living, compensating, atoning. 

She experienced a wonderful influx of grace 
and courage at this time; and there were mo- 
ments when she felt a wild, sweet rush of 
hope against her heart, like mad-glad waves 
upon the Land. Life seemed only to be with- 
holding its latest, goldenest gift ; and although 
her joy was overcast with sorrow, it bour- 
geoned none the less. For the Mother had 
been ill; and, with the almost loss of her, 


77 


78 


Cfce ^oul of lotoc 


there had come to dwell with Dawn a mighty 
Fear. God had saved to her from Death's 
coveting the sharer of her life, in answer to her 
agonized supplications; but there had fallen 
over her pathway its time-long shadow; and 
yet, for the sake of the Mother and for the 
sake of the joy, ever upward from the Shadow 
and away from the Fear looked the fearless 
eyes of Dawn. 

Thus, as it happened, it was some years 
after that strange Awakening of the maiden's 
that the Mother and her daughter found them- 
selves, upon a cloudless summer morning, 
speeding toward Midbourne, the enchanted 
hamlet where a Soul had been discovered and 
availed of. 

Soon, in a car, they were passing through 
the town where the Farewell had been mutely 
given; but Dawn, assuring herself as to the 
Mother’s comfort, had failed to note their 
whereabouts, when, of a sudden, she felt a 
strange sweet warmth about her heart, and, 
looking outward, she beheld a well-remem- 
bered street; yea, even the very spot — the 
speaking stones — whence he who had taught 
her to know the face of Joy, looked up at her 
upon that far-off morning — such sadness in 
his eyes as haunts the face of one who looks 


Cf je %>ml of Hotoe 


79" 

on Death, and yet, a hope, withal. She trem- 
bled at the discovery and the recollection, and 
all the way she wondered at the burning of 
her heart before her bodily eyes had made 
known to her the nearness of that one hal- 
lowed place in all the thriving town. 

The two were speedily domesticated in a 
quaint little cottage set deep in a quaint little 
garden, not far away from that sacred spot 
whereon had been enacted one scene from the 
Life-drama of a man, the bare memory of 
which had well proven its power to shape for 
good the course of another life. 

Long, long ago, that wonderful, passionate, 
first fervor of Dawn’s had seemed to pass ; but, 
in reality, as has been shown, it had been ab- 
sorbed into her being; it had become a pul- 
sating, constraining force within her, strength- 
ening each resolve, inspiring every endeavor, 
intensifying and beautifying all of life for 
her, for all of Time to come. Dawn’s con- 
scious thought, however, had not touched this 
man for a long, long time. If there had ever 
dwelt with her an hidden hope that she might 
meet once more her strange far helper; if she 
had ever questioned why his path had not 
crossed hers again; if she had ever asked, in 
prayer, his return of God, ah, that was long 


80 


Cfte §>oul of JLotoe 


ago, — and from the very beginning her sweet, 
new theory had forbidden even a dream of 
him ; but, on the second day of their coming, as 
she stood alone upon the patch of green be- 
tween the sclioolhouse and the small wooden 
station, all things visible served to recall his 
presence, and she began once more to muse 
about him. 

The beacon of his soul, she thought, was 
glassed through his body, casting a far light! 
And again — his was the hermit-soul of the 
true idealist, wearing grandly, yet fearfully, 
the “holy habit” of the body. Ah, a man like 
that could not have lived so long and helped 
but one! Those who were the companions of 
his childhood still loved, remembered him, she 
knew; all who had met him in his youth had 
been enriched, whether conscious of their fair 
endowment or otherwise ; the chosen friends of 
his full manhood appreciated, perforce, their 
privileges; and yet — Dawn fell to wondering, 
as she looked down into the grass and clover, 
if there were one, even one other, who knew 
what she did know; whose spirit-eyes had 
seen, whose spirit-ears had heard, what hers 
had seen and heard ; who had caught the mes- 
sage of his soul, the music of his heart, as she ; 
and who revered as she the memory of that 


Cfje @>oul of JLotoe 


81 


mighty, gentle, nameless Man, who had saved 
her as he passed — so true his course, so sure 
his word, so impellent his radiant being. She 
knew that the salvation of some human beings 
depends upon their renunciation of creatures, 
while others are led by creatures to their Cre- 
ator; and, she wondered if there were one, 
even one other, of all those benefited, as clearly 
conscious of the man’s unconscious benedic- 
tion and profiting as well; as strongly faith- 
ful to his mystic memory; as passionately 
prayerful for his weal in time and in Eternity 
— as she, at once the loser and the gainer. 

She lifted her eyes at last; and a nearby 
woodland, full of beckoning shadows and all 
manner of wonder-things, discovering itself 
unto her, she hastened homeward to tell the 
Mother of it, and soon she was linking to- 
gether her little tinkling chain of love-word 
and nonsense-word for the cheering of the be- 
loved one, whom she found awaiting her upon 
the porch. 

“Let us away, dear little mother,” she cried. 
“I have found a wonderful tree that the fairies 
still inhabit! Doubtless, they will provide us 
a luncheon if we say but the word! Beloved 
shall we go?” 

“Foolish child,” fondly whispered the Moth- 


82 


Cfte of &otie 


er, forgetting the long, long years; and the 
daughter experienced her first thrill of joy 
that it could never be otherwise; she must re- 
main the Child — that the Mother might enjoy 
every phase of her firmly-gentle, sweetly-ca- 
pricious sway, unto the end! Yet she who 
had been made the dependent one, who had 
been ever the shielded, the cared-for, now 
wished to be the one to love and tend ; she who 
had been the served, the toiled-for, now desired 
to be the very servant, the laborer; she who 
had been the child hid in the mother’s shadow, 
now longed to be, in sooth, the very Mother 
of her mother ; for, more and more, through 
every hour and day, the great love within her 
strove to be spent in its utmost strength and 
tenderness. Presently, and afterwards, it was 
to be poured abroad and lavishly; for Dawn 
was to venture a little farther out among her 
fellows, timidly, yet with a better show of 
bravery than of old; not only to give love for 
love, but to match her sympathy against un- 
sympathy, her love against unlove, and win 
her unmarked victories! Even now, nothing 
that might come in the way of disappoint- 
ment would have power to change her ideal 
view of things or ever cast her down; and, as 
she passed deeper into life, it was to be no 


Cfte ^>oul of JLofce 


83 


longer a surprise to find so many different 
standpoints, and, perhaps, so few lofty ones — 
the while her nature was to flower into a man- 
ner more and more tolerant and tender, as the 
prolific days would unfold. 

Soon they sat beneath the fairy elm, the 
happy comrades, to enjoy together Summer’s 
largess and Thyra’s letter. 

“My Dawn, what strange things are hap- 
pening! Dare I tell you that I have not been 
missing you as I said I should, arch-traitor 
that I am? I did want you, at the first, so 
much, and so many times; when a care shad- 
owed the day a little and when a new thought 
sweetened the night! But dear, he — Justin — 
returned home unexpectedly. When his oppor- 
tunity came, I had begged him, as you know, 
to go and to remain as long as possible; but 
after he returned, thoughts, emotions, events, 
even, seemed to crowd; and there was not a 
moment when the consciousness of deep, 
sweet, holy things like mysteries was not par- 
amount. It is only now that I may speak of it 
—and only thus — and only to — my Dawn, who 
will be as a close-shut volume when all is said, 
blessed with a tear, perhaps, and clasped with 
a heart ! Dear, let me whisper what he said of 
you — ‘she seems a creature overflowing with 


84 


Ci )t @oul of JLoue 


love’ — and he had only seen you twice! He 
understood. Full of love, dear, you; the mor- 
tal lover has not come, but you are never 
wasted — and ‘the birds are fed/ Nothing is 
lost we do or feel for nobleness. Surely, some 
invisible angel flies low to gather up just such 
things for God to keep: the prayer that duty 
interrupts, the smile unanswered, the vanished 
thought, the hope unfruited, the love unut- 
tered, unreturned! But, Dawn, your love’s 
great fruitage is for many, and your hope has 
blossomed, too, into expression; and you are 
toiling on — you little nun-in-the-world ! 

“This life is only a beginning — but such a 
beautiful beginning ! The soul, indeed, is com- 
plete in God ; but it seems to me now that our 
being, human and divine, is completer for the 
pure human love He sends to us. The love of 
God does not withdraw; it is a compelling 
force outward ; the heart enlarges and longs to 
take the very world within it ” 

“O Thyra, Thyra,” this from Dawn, with a 
smile and a sigh together ; and then she cried 
to the Mother, “How strong is he who draws 
my sky-lark nearer earth ; how bold is he who 
dares — to woo my star,” but out of the moth- 
er-face there shone a light, transfiguring, 
revealing. “Dear,” went on the letter, “a na- 


C6e %>oul of JLotoe 


85 


ture like yours, would it not be annihilated too 
close to Love? God made you different. Red 
roses and the burning sun, but white roses and 
moonlight ; so life, for you, stretches out in one 
long level path of silver light! For you, the 
white rose of a Reality that is the pale sweet 
ghost of a life that might have been, and yet — 
for you — the only Possibility. For you, the 
moonlight love — a reflection only, yet it 
whitens the way! For you, a twilight-life, 
with the steady starlight of the little lesser 
joys; the gleam of white, white roses. My 
Dawn, for you, the mild and holy Vision of 
love, which will abide! 

“Love, here, what is it, then? The shining 
warp and woof of a wonderful experience en- 
folding us, which, because no finite thought 
may touch it, must belong to the Eternal. A 
little lifting of the veil between the visible and 
the spiritual, vouchsafed to the elect of Life! 
It has been lifted for you as well as for me ; we 
have both had the vision, but in different ways. 

“I leave you, dear; but you are to be at 
home for — the day! I promise to miss you 
every moment when I am not helping plan for 
coming times, a certain goodly physician you 
know of! We are to do, God directing us, 
what each has always secretly wished to do; 


86 


C t)t §>oul of iLotoe 


we are to work in the dark places; and you 
are to help us, Dawn, when you can. A new 
field for poets? Nay, I think the poet-hopes 
and knowledges have led to it, and they will 
teach us what to do far better than the prose 
of mere materialities ever could have taught 
us. 

“It does not occur to me to doubt that the 
precious mother is well and lovely, as, long ere 
this, I should have been apprised of any ad- 
verse happening, Dawn knowing well that 
ready to fly to her at any hour of the day or 
night is Thyra.” 

When the shadows of things were lying 
along the ground, black and narrowing to east- 
ward, the daughter led her dear guardian and 
charge in one to a sheltered corner of the 
porch; and, after a dexterous adjustment of 
cushions into a throne for the queen-mother 
and a tender swathing of the little royal body 
in divers shawls of softest texture, she stood 
awhile to enjoy the unaccustomed beauty of 
the scene: A cottage here and there; a peace- 
ful mead beyond; while overhead, great bars 
of rose and blue, and stripes of greenish yel- 
low overlay a band of richest gold set lower in 
the sky, which deepened and deepened, until at 


€&e %>ottl of Lotoe 


87 


the very edge of the world, where mist and 
mountain made a purplish border, long reaches 
of sombre flame and trails of sullen smoke be- 
tokened that the hills beyond were all a-fire! 

For a long while this hour had closest met 
her spirit’s mood and need, and now a resist- 
less force seemed drawing her, soul and body, 
toward the setting sun. 

“Look up, little mother,” she said, “is it not 
good to be here? I have a fancy for a little 
lonely walk — just a step or two nearer the sun- 
set! Darling, may I go?” And Dawn, with a 
last tender look into the beautiful face of her 
mother, went down the garden-walk. 

Soon was she passing along the little lane 
where, on a vanished afternoon, she had so 
softly moved in all the mystery of her maiden- 
hood, but where to-day, wearing the more 
realizable charm won of life’s deeper illumi- 
ning, she walked the maiden-woman, fed of 
wisdom, nounshed of joy. 

Occasionally, a villager passed whose ready 
nod was returned with smiles from her full 
heart ; and now and again, little children looked 
up at her with their friendly, trusting eyes, 
and she bent to touch their heads, as in bene- 
diction. 

Here it was that she had found the yellow 


88 


C6e §>oul of ILotie 


flower; and there it was that she had caught 
her first note of the heart-cadences of him who 
had surprised her as she passed, singing silent- 
ly his love-songs to the world. 

Soon she reached the small wooden station ; 
and now she had passed beyond the school- 
house and was standing upon a level terrace, a 
little apart from the marshaled gravestones; 
for this, in truth, was that same dreamless 
Field which had held her maiden gaze awhile, 
one unforgotten day. Once more, she thought, 
had Nature and the Sunset called her, and she 
had come to them ! 

Facing the glowing west she stood, paler, 
slenderer than she had been; for, from the 
very first, the constant washing of the waves 
of memory had worn her heart a little ; and aft- 
erward her spirit, in its sure but gradual 
growth, had drawn somewhat upon her body's 
strength. Her face was lifted skyward, and 
her eyes looked far into the limpid heavens — 
those eyes where dwelt the blended colors of 
the sea and sky upon a day when the sun is 
nearly hidden, and which, indeed, at this new 
moment, seemed to reflect the veiled warmth 
of the sun, the secret of the clouds, the sorrow 
of the sea. 

Here in this magic air, had the human heart 


C6e §>oul of JtoDe 


89 


in her revolted at the inevitableness of the 
moonlight path and the changeless glimmer 
of white roses? For Dawn, even as she stood, 
began to feel anew Love’s possibilities, and 
Life’s possibilities, if shared with the Sympa- 
thizer, — and her eyes now clearly emitted the 
tempered joy, the inexplicable wonder, the 
never-to-be-revealed sadness of these two won- 
derful imaginings. 

What she had gained of the man who had 
passed by, every shred of inspiration and of 
blessedness, she had wrapped about her as a 
garment and gone on her radiant way. How 
high the cliffs of knowledge she had scaled; 
how limitless the prospect from those virgin 
heights; their atmosphere, how revealing! For 
her old poets, whom she had loved, in the 
long ago, for their music-worship, their nature 
worship, she now loved above all things for 
their eagle-vision, their mountain-overlook ; 
for their power of altering old viewpoints and 
of making new ones for a world. And her 
idealists — those wide eyes, open-eared, prac- 
tical sowers and reapers in fields that are im- 
mortal, those seers of sorrow and criers of 
joy, who sing sometimes in liquid prose, their 
hard-won hope — she now recognized as the 
very brothers and sisters of her soul, for her 


90 


C&e ^oul of Looe 


experience, as theirs, had been; her angel, as 
theirs, had passed! 

The light winds touched her — as it seemed, 
with sympathy, with understanding ; the crick- 
ets sang a requiem among the graves ; and yet, 
so still the place, so deep the quietude, Dawn 
seemed almost to be listening to the gentle 
breathings of Nature, sinking to an apparent 
rest; while the sudden hush within her soul 
seemed a partaking of the vast loneliness (that 
was yet not loneliness) of earth and sky. 

O Hour of contrasts: teeming emptiness; 
desolate glory; lyric silence; lost realities and 
the companioning of shadows! O leveling, 
healing Hour — potent to calm the turbulent, to 
curb the rejoicing, to comfort the sorrowful ! 

“The lesser, the mortal joy, should be swal- 
lowed up in the Greater, which is God,” was 
her poignant reflection, and her eyes gave forth 
the mystic spirituality of the hour ; but the hu- 
man heart in her was not yet quelled ; for, of a 
sudden, she extended her white-draped arms 
like wings, and stood as one inspired, trans- 
fixed, against a curtain of mysterious Dusk, 
held backward with a star. 

And she began to pray aloud : 

“Because of the good he has done unto me, 
my Father, bless him! 


C&e %>ouI of Lone 91 

“Wherever he is in the wide world, uphold 
him! 

“If he be ill. Lord, heal him! If he be sad, 
Lord, comfort him! If he be tempted, save 
him!” 

Slowly her arms dropped downward after 
the praying of this prayer; and soon, self-lost 
she stood at last, amid the marvel of Immen- 
sity: — the while, in truth, there came to her 
fresh floods of inner light, even a newer 
knowledge and an almost conception of pri- 
mordial thought — as her rapt mind dwelt on 
the dark wonders before the beginning, the 
stark solemnity of chaos; on the straightened 
beauty of evolved order; the mighty mission 
of the sun; the mystic message of the stars; 
the splendid stress and calm of Nature; the 
sinless ardor of the beast and bird; the God- 
like strength and ideality of Man — 

A woman had come slowly up the hill. Near- 
ing the lonely figure on the terrace, she had 
murmured “good evening,” and seemed about 
to pass, when of a sudden, as if bethinking that 
her presence even here might mean intrusion, 
“I’ve come for a bit of air,” she had added soft- 
ly ; but now, standing still and looking full into 


92 


Cfte §»oul of £oOe 


the other’s face, she finished with a strange 
abruptness, “My name’s Honora.” 

“And mine — is Dawn,” the woman heard, 
somehow finding the smile that scarcely 
showed as yet on the face of the far-thoughted 
one. 

“Dawn,” the woman echoed, and again, as if 
affrighted, “Dawn! You are — a stranger here 
” she hesitated, “were you ever here — be- 
fore?” 

“O yes ! Just once before — one summer aft- 
ernoon!” and now, fully recalled, Dawn fell to 
wondering at the aptness of the question and 
the fullness of her answer — the while she 
caught the other’s startled gaze. 

“I — live here — all the time,” the woman ven- 
tured, in strained and hurried tones ; she 
paused appreciably; then added, as abruptly 
as before, “there is a grave here that I like to 
come to, now and then. Will you come with 
me? It is only over yonder,” and she pointed 
toward a not far distant group of trees. She 
seemed the modern village woman, friendly, 
intelligent; yet, withal, unusual. The poise of 
her small spare body was suggestive of an 
alert helpfulness ; the lessening light veiled, 
somewhat, the plain outline of her face, but 
not its patient strength, and it could be dis- 


Clje §)OUl of JLotoe 


93 


cerned that her hair was neatly parted; while 
her eyes, deep-set under thinning lids, beneath 
dark brows, showed traces of an ancient trag- 
edy — even the hidden woe of the mismated. 

Together they went in among the graves, 
thence passing to the farthest edge of the in- 
closure where was set a low and solitary stone. 
Dawn, stooping, read the words upon it — their 
carven letters kept the golden light: 

“There Awaits Love’s Perfect Day,” she ut- 
tered it aloud ; and again, “There Awaits 
Love’s Perfect Day!” Her voice was trem- 
bling ; there had crept a chill about her heart. 

“That was all he would have on it,” said her 
companion in even, earnest tones, “and he 
wanted — to be close to the pines. He used to 
sit here evenings ; he loved the mountain view 
from here, and those little bushes almost hid 
the graves. He had been at Midbourne, as he 
told me, ‘just once before — one summer aft- 
ernoon!’ This time he came in the spring — it 
was this spring — and he was almost gone 
when he came, although he did not know it. 
I am sure, he had hopes, at the first, of finish- 
ing his work and being better and happier 
soon — and his way was always so cheerful, it 
could not help making others so. He stayed at 
our house; he was good — to us all ” 


94 


Cfie %>oul of Hone 


It was now that Dawn took the village 
woman’s hard and slender hand within her 
own. 

“I brought you here — because your name is 
— Dawn,” Honora whispered. “Must I tell you 
more — about — him?” But the other’s trem- 
bling lips gave forth an inarticulate answer. 

“He was overworked and had broken down 
all at once; we did our best — and the doctors 
— but we could not save him. And all the time 
he was writing, working. Something had hap- 
pened in his family — a long while back — and 
he had taken all the burden of it on himself. 
But it was no fault of his, whatever it was — 
of that I am certain, miss-— — ” There was a 
note of triumph in the woman’s voice and her 
companion pressed her hand in a strange, wild 
sympathy. 

“One day, after he was taken ill, he handed 
me a bit of paper with something he had writ- 
ten on it, which he asked me to read. After- 
wards, he told me some little things that made 
it clearer, and I have read it so often since, I 
know it all by heart. It was like this: ‘One 
who met pain and death and darkness, but 
whose night was riven, bequeathes the Finish- 
ing of his task, by prayer, to Her who is the 
namesake of the Dawn, and who has always 


C&e %ouI of Hotie 


95 


been hovering just beyond the horizon of his 
consciousness — a strange Expectation, a 
strong sweet Hoping, his Dream of fullest 
Light !’ 

“After I had finished reading it, he said to 
me — ‘You are to give it to her when she 
comes, some day — so keep a lookout for her 1 / 
He had a way of smiling that was very taking, 
and he smiled so, then; and in a little while, 
smiling again in that odd way of his, he said, 
‘I have nothing to leave but my pilgrim’s staff 
and scroll — the staff for you, the scroll for — 
Dawn !’ He always stopped before he said the 
name; and somehow, it sounded like a little 
tune to me, when he did say it. It is a sealed 

paper, miss ” the woman faltered here, as 

if she liked not even now to deliver all her 
trust ; but in another moment she was sturdily 
proving her honest intention. “ ‘It is my sim- 
ple story,’ ” he said to me. “ ‘I come of a proud 
family that has lost its pride,’ he said, ‘and 
there are no names. But what are names or 

dates to her * and then he went on as if 

to himself — ‘who rose, Aurora-like, from the 
outer dark and silence, discovering to me 
newer worlds, both without and within?’ 

“I remember what he said so well, miss, be- 
cause somehow it was all so good to remember 


96 


Cf)e ^>oul of lobe 


— and then he was only here a little while — 
yet it seemed, when he left us, that I had 
known him all my life! He taught us both — 
in little ways, without saying much — things 
we had never thought of, about — forbearance 
” she spoke shyly here, unused to the con- 
fiding of her nearest grief, adding quickly, as 
if almost afraid of the other’s sympathy, “he 

had a droll way of talking, too ” (and now 

her tone was half proud, half apologetic), 
“ ‘She will come some day/ he said, ‘even as I ! 
She will come — on the wings of the morn, per- 
haps, or through the sunset meadows! So, 
keep a lookout, good friend#!’ And I have! I 
have asked them all. I have watched and 
waited. And it is just the way you came! I 
did not understand it then, but I see it now — 
and I know,” she finished, in solemn authorita- 
tive accents, “that you are the Dawn he meant 
(he had heard them call your name). I know 
that you remember him: I know you are the 
very one he meant!” 

The depth of her admiration for the man and 
her unerring intuition as to the being beside 
her made eloquent her simple words, through 
which there ran, in truth, a ripple of tears; 
and now she took the other’s cold still hand in 
both her own. 


Cfte §>ouI of Lofee 


97 


“At the last he lost his head a little — he 
often spoke quite wild. ‘Too late to seek/ 
he would cry out, ‘Oh, was it best?’ Quite 
near the end — it was about this time of even- 
ing, and the sky was just like thus — there was 
a kind of glory behind the mountains — ‘Life 
sunders like the sea/ he cried, ‘life sunders 
like the sea P and then he called out sharp and 
quick, ‘A later light ! I see it clear — and all is 
well P His voice was loud and glad ; but at the 
very last it sounded sweet and soft (like far- 
away hymn music) when he whispered, ‘Only 
the Glimmer of love’s morning here — but 
There, to meet my Day P And then he smiled 
— it was the most wonderful smile of all, I 

think, and then ” the woman’s voice broke 

here, and her grateful tears flowed over. 

But Dawn, who for long had stood all still 
and chill as a shape of marble, now fell to sob- 
bing strangely, wide-gazed, dry-eyed. There 
was no word that she could utter, for never yet 
had one thought come to compass this surprise 
— but she caught the woman in a quick and 
close embrace ; then, drawing gently backward, 
dismissed her without speech. 

And this — his grave ! Such solitude around, 
such stillness overthrown — it seemed that Na- 


98 


C6e §>oul of Hotoe 


ture here had grieved herself to sleep ! But this 
that tarried still from over yon far mountain? 
One lingering, loving beam! And this that 
glimmered like a star beside? Out of its leafy 
dusk, a white, white rose! 

“Israfel,” breathed Dawn, kneeling there; 
and again, “Israfel!” then timidly she whis- 
pered, “So we have met — again!” 

No sound; not even a sigh from out the 
dreaming pine. 

“O strange, O wonderful !” she cried to him. 
“Mysterious overshadowing soul — leading on, 
preventing evil — what I have had of you must 
still survive?” 

And still no word; for Nature sleeps, and he. 

“And you remembered me — as I remembered 
you? I had not dared to think of that. What 
was it — Israfel?” 

No answer still from out the darkening 
earth, and low she stooped and pressed her lips 
upon the grave. “It is holy ground,” she 
said. 

And then she lifted up her face toward 
Heaven, and for awhile was lost in thought 
of him and of her new-found dignity as keeper 
of his Trust. And, afterward, she fell to con- 
sidering the wonder of the highest human love 
between a man and a woman, each having 


Cfte ^oul of iLotoe 


99 


power to give the perfect Sympathy. Oh, the 
mutual understanding, the dumb divining of 
every thought and aspiration, the guardian 
care of each for the soul of the other, — which 
would be the Sublime of the earthly com- 
munion, which would make the Divineness of 
the passion of love! And the marvel of that 
holy sympathy grew ; the beauty of it glowed ; 
the sweetness of it assailed her very senses; 
while the cry of her wonderful flesh-clothed 
spirit for satisfaction was loud and long ! 

But again her thought returned to the sleep- 
er near; and she recalled that image of him 
which had remained with her, and she remem- 
bered those immortal longings born of him; 
and, in a moment, all the poignant sweetness 
of his sacrificial ways, all the pathetic loveli- 
ness of his surrendered days, all the tragic 
beauty of his fate — was borne in upon her so 
strongly, so tenderly, that her woman’s heart 
did well-nigh break with the sweet, sad, joy- 
ous weight of it. And yet, it was not the he- 
roic man she pitied, nor yet her wonder-strick- 
en self, but all the little world about that was 
to miss him! Swiftly she sprang downward, 
as if to lay fierce hands upon that guardian 
dust ; and her tears fell wild above him hid be- 
neath. 


100 


Cfie %>oul of iLotoe 


“Oh, was it love, then, Israfel? Oh, was it 
love?” she cried. And then, at last she wept. 
All the old elation, all that wonderful exalta- 
tion of spirit and mood which had been hers 
since they had parted — was now clean riven 
away from her, and she strangely knew only 
the near sharp grief of all other women who 
have loved and lost. And thus she knelt and 
wept ; the while so utter her abandonment, so 
deep her dereliction, every temporal and eter- 
nal hope deserted her, and she seemed a thing 
alone, apart, aloof from all the world, lost of 
the Mother, forgotten of Israfel, forsaken even 
of God! 

But the dolorous moment passed. 

For surely Dawn, sound of heart and strong 
of soul, to whom the supreme mortal felicity 
seemed to have been denied — surely Dawn in 
a little while had begun to remember that He 
— the Supreme Sympathizer, the Supernal 
OLover of men — doeth all things well. And 
surely Dawn had quickly realized that there 
might be Joy so full, so pure, so perfect — it 
were unbefitting earth : and that linked lives of 
lighter expectations, lesser sympathies, may 
sometimes better bear the little human lot. 

Perhaps her exquisitely sane and clear con- 
ception of the true Comradeship now proved 


Cfte %>ouI of Lobe 


101 


its power to annihilate the need here of an as- 
sociation that might be taken up again so 
readily after the spirit had been unsheathed of 
Time and winged of all Eternity; or, had God 
vouchsafed her the miraculous vision that her 
acquiescence in His will might be renounce- 
ment? In the midst of her strange new deso- 
lation of heart, had she remembered that far 
anguished cry and answered, “It was best?” 
For even as she knelt — still suffering, without 
knowing wherefore, all the bitter-sweetness of 
relinquishment — her tears were swiftly dried, 
and she experienced a vast and healing sense 
of loving protection, as of the Wings of a great 
white Peace enfolding her; while in the dawn- 
ing light of the Divine Consolation was her 
patient life encrowned. 

For, with clasped hands, looking upward, 
she began again to marvel; and she recalled 
those teeming words of his in a great wonder- 
ment; and she pondered the meaning of those 
strange and fruitful mutual memories — until 
the coming of her last and tenderest revela- 
tion: All quietly it came, yet with the solemn 
might of Truth, — and lo, she knew his heart’s 
still secret, her own long-hidden bliss! Yea, 
even as he had loved and revered, until his 
latest moment here, that image of her which 


102 


Cfie g) 0 til of Hone 

had dwelt in his mind and soul, so had she been 
worshipping, under God, all these long years, 
that image of him which had remained with 
her : and, in an instant, all the white unearthly 
passion of her knowledge of that imperishable 
mutual Reverence towered up in its sweet 
might until soul and body seemed burning to- 
gether in one exalted flame! 

And Nature stirred at last! Fine little tre- 
mors ran along the grass; the waking pine 
gave out its fragrant word ; light winds sprang 
up again, and shadows moved among the 
graves — the Night was creeping near: and 
softly through the heart of Dawn there stole a 
wild sweet music — even a strange new 
requiem, an ethereal paean of joy! 

And she arose the woman Perfected. 

Who dreamed that the still white Dawn 
would ever burn with such deep glow ! 
Dimmed were those passionate fires of mem- 
ory and of prophecy, low in the western sky; 
then surely the light of some Supernal sunrise 
was upon her as she smiled upon his grave ! 

“It is love — it is love,” exultingly she cried, 
“outbraving life and death, outblooming earth 
and time! O viewless one, immortal one — it 
is love! It is love!” 

THE END 


So has been written down, for a Memorial, 
this story of soul-touch, soul-influence: the 
brief and lovely history of an experience won- 
derful, forming, atoning. 

Now has been recorded the primal moment 
of the meeting and recognition of two like 
spirits; and the crucial crowning one of their 
farewell and separation, which was to be a 
parting for All Time. 

Herein has been portrayed, howbeit inade- 
quately, that reaching out of the burning soul- 
rays, each to each (surely impelled of God, 
God-guided, over each life’s fixed barriers, past 
gateless walls of fate) ; and in the aftertime 
their power to pierce, unto enlightenment, 
thick webs of distances that hung between; 
their skill to change, for betterment of both, 
even the unchangeable measures of Time — for 
to each of these, thereafter unto the end, was 
Yesterday to lean as close as To-day and To- 
morrow to be as near! 

Thus it has been seen how the earth-time of 
life for each one of these had been softened, 
103 


104 


C&e ©oul of JLofce 


had been lightened, had been strengthened, 
had been sweetened, in a manner mysterious — 
yet, withal, easily comprehensible. 

Surely none may say that the life of her 
whose story is written here has failed of its 
Accomplishment: for having journeyed thus 
far unbroken, undaunted, unscathed, for all of 
Time’s temptings, wearings, harryings, — bear- 
ing softly as she goes gifts, gatherings, garner- 
ings, for all of Time’s denials, withdrawals and 
withholdings, in spite of need unanswered, of 
loss without ever having gained, — she now 
awaits Life’s latest benediction, even (or far 
or near) its Closing Hour, which should be 
like the Sunset, the dying day’s last blessing. 

And truly none may say that she, the 
maiden-woman, has failed even of happiness 
upon the earth, for with her — on into the 
Night — fares Love the Angel, with folded 
wings but eyes expectant of full Day! 



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